


in media res, he directs.

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, October 4th
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s all scripted, from the pale of his lips to the bruises on his fingers, curled tight against the grip of a loaded gun.</p>
<p>(ken amada and the ghost of his mother.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in media res, he directs.

_don’t be ridiculous. you can do it, you’ve been training your entire life for this moment. fulfill your side of the pact._

Nemesis likes whispering at night, likes whispering into his ears words of terrible wicked things, words of the unwise and the cruel. Ken Amada hasn’t slept for years. He hasn’t had a good night’s rest since the night of his mother’s murder, he hasn’t been able to dream since the night he watched his mother disappear into a curtain of smoke and ashes--he chokes on his pillow case, smothered by saliva and scratchy white flannel. 

The dorm is no better. The dorm is cold and alien and unfamiliar, and Ken hates it. He hates it because the autumn sun beats against the window panes and crawls underneath his skin and leaves the already sad and empty room feeling worse, an oven filled to the brim with sad and lonely memories of a boy who saw his mother die in front of him--and saw the police force he admired and revered refuse to bring her back from her unmarked grave. 

The pact was the only thing in Ken’s room that he could say belonged to him. A revolver twice the size of his hand, obsidian and onyx and ebony, the color darker than the black of his ancient soul. It’s heavy in his grip, it bruises soft finger pads and leaves marks of insurmountable suspicion. He twists his lips into a grimace, and pockets the weapon without further fanfare or contemplation. He has things to do, and reminiscing on years of a wasted childhood was not one of them. 

His vanity mirror mocks him. It reflects a pale boy, scrawny and skinny and bony, with a mop of brown hair on his small head, his school uniform wrinkled and ill-kept. Ken can’t remember the last time he had it properly washed and ironed. Yukari-san offered her assistance earlier that week, but he rebuffed her with a kind grin and a tilt to the head that emphasized all of his child-like features and downplayed his dull brown gaze. 

His dorm-mates are worried about him, but Ken does not care. He does not care at all.

_that’s good, that’s good_ , Nemesis coos.  _revenge demands to be felt, to the very core!_  

The Dark Hour approaches with uneasy steps, it crawls on its knees towards the Gekkoukan area, a long shadow composed of asphalt and concrete and cruel lipped grins, the mania of a thousand souls shuddering and shaking, pulsating through the thick city fog. The sky flashes white, then settles on a smoky green, the full moon bores holes in Ken’s face. 

Fuuka’s voice echoes within the confines of the dorm, the shuffle of footsteps follows soon after. Ken does not move. He waits. 

And then slips through the cracks and blends with the night until he’s out at Tatsumi Port Island, covered in grime and dirt from the alleyways and back streets he’s come to know too well. He is not alone.

“Well, kid. You’ve got what you asked for.” Shinjiro Aragaki leans against a broken and graffitied brick wall like he owns the place, too tall frame hunched over, with pale hands in burgundy peacoat pockets. He wears a crooked smile, something rueful and ironic. He seems to be at peace, despite his razor sharp despondence. Ken notices he’s not carrying his wicked axe, or any of the armor he was assigned earlier that week.

(He does not think about the girl who picked out the armor or the weaponry for him.) 

The boy tries to not let it chip away at his facade. It would do no good. He's come so far.

“Yeah, I did.” Ken’s voice threatens to crack, but he steels himself and opts for a stone cold glare that would have withered sunflowers. Shinjiro laughs, it’s hollow and scathing. He adjusts his knit cap over his dark hair and arches a grey brow. 

“So, what’s your plan?” 

When he says it like that, so business-like and so apathetic, Ken feels his resolve weaken. But not enough for him to drop the gun onto the cobblestone and run. Not that much. He is an Amada, and he is strong. He is  _justice_. If the legal system wasn’t going to help him, if the gods above were against him, then he was going to deal the cards. He was going to  _avenge._

He does not reconsider.

“Do you know why I asked you to meet me here?” 

The words fall out of his mouth and dissipate in the air. It’s all scripted, from the pale of his lips to the bruises on his fingers, curled tight against the grip of a loaded gun. 

“You killed my mother.” 

Shinjiro’s mask does not ripple, it does not break. He is still hunched over, in on himself, and with a loud sigh he straightens himself out. Standing tall, he is several feet taller than the eleven year old boy, and he is menacing. 

“You gonna do the same to me? Tch.” 

Ken fumbles with the gun, and then clutches it tightly, his knuckles grow pale white. Yes. Yes he was. He points the revolver at the gray eyed man and does not move. 

“Do it. But let me give you a warning. You’ll end up like  _me_ , if you take my life.” 

He does not expect that. Ken does not expect that at all. Nemesis hisses within the confines of his skull.  _this was not part of the plan. he was supposed to suffer_! Ken trembles and bites his tongue, hating Shinjiro Aragaki for looking like a  _saint_ in a sewer rat’s clothing. 

“Is that supposed to change my mind? Shut up.  _S_ _hut up!_ ” 

“There’s no reason to feel regret.” 

Ken’s blood freezes. A white haired man enters the scene, looking horribly out of place among the green tinted bricks and dirty streets. His voice is ice and dynamite in his veins, he finds resolve in his baritone. 

“That’s right. I don’t have to feel a thing.” 

But the angel of death has other plans. He pulls out a gun, darker than night, and points it at Shinjiro. 

“Sadly, your meddling will have to end here. It’s not like you have much to live for, anyway. Those pills, and all.”

His yellow gaze is unwavering, piercing. Shinjiro flinches, and reaches for the hilt of an axe he is not carrying. His calloused fingers grab air, and then curl into a fist. 

“ _What? W_ hat the hell does he mean that you’re going to die?  _That’s not fair!_ ” Ken felt his composure double over, like it had been sucker punched. 

“Well, it doesn’t really matter who dies now, since I’ll be taking care of both of you.” 

It happens.

But Ken is not dead. The boy unfolds himself, lowers his arms from his head and realizes he is not covered in entrails, he is not spasming on the floor and choking out his last words in filth and broken glass. His orange hoodie is still orange, his brown hair is still clean, his small hands are not stained red.

But the man he was going to kill is coughing out blood. 

“ _SHINJI!”_

Akihiko Sanada’s shout breaks whatever stupor Ken was in, and the boy clutches his face and chokes back a scream. Shinjiro manages to chuckle, and looks him in the eye--grey meets brown and there’s something pitiful in the mist. 

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Heh. It’s all right, Ken. Don’t waste your life--let your anger be your strength.”

“Don’t waste it.”

The contact ends and he turns towards Akihiko, and says something that’s too far away for Ken to hear. He sees red, he sees green, and the world teeters in and out of focus. Minako-san is crying somewhere. Why is she crying? Ken opens his mouth to say something, but closes it the moment his head lands on the pavement. The world spins.

It’s dark.  

“O _h sweetie_.” 

 

Nemesis sounds like his mother.

**Author's Note:**

> LAYS DOWN AND CRIES OKAY SO THIS HAS BEEN IN THE WORKS FOR A COUPLE OF MONTHS NOW AND I JUST. OCTOBER FOUR REALLY KICKED ME IN THE FACE WHEN I FIRST PLAYED IT (ESPECIALLY WITH SHINJIRO'S S. LINK. WAY TO MAKE HIS DEATH AT LEAST TWENTY TIMES MORE TRAGIC GOOD LORD) AND I JUST WANTED TO WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT IT BUT EVERYONE HAS WRITTEN ABOUT OCT 4 FROM EVERY PERSPECTIVE POSSIBLE SO I WAS LIKE
> 
> I'm going to write about Ken. Mostly because I fell in love with this little shit half way through the game and was rather upset that he stopped being so important after October like. Ugh. Way to waste a perfectly good character. I wanted to write about what he might've felt, might've thought. Despite his maturity, he's still eleven and he's still plotting to kill someone.
> 
> that boy is fucked up lemme tell you
> 
> ok good bye sorry persona 3 fandom i'm so sorry i wrote this i'm sorry i'm here gomen 
> 
> \- angie


End file.
